


a milestone in intangibles

by rewire



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Arranged Marriage, Arson, Epistolary, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Ghosts, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, both of those are technically right?, it's a matter of perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-12 06:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewire/pseuds/rewire
Summary: “Your father is dead.”M.M. laughs, because what else is she supposed to do?(M.M. grows up, gets out, and finds that love is what you make of it.)





	a milestone in intangibles

**Author's Note:**

> For Rain Day: Mutual Pining!  
> This is possibly the loosest interpretation of mutual pining ever, but I appreciate the mods being generous here ^^; This is, however, the most niche rarepair I've ever written. First fic in the tag!  
> .  
> I've sourced both poems used in text.  
> Title is from Rosetta Stone Serious Study of Love Song (from the British Museum) by ed roberson, which just goes to show i've spent too much time reading poetry for this thing.  
> .  
> Extra special thanks to the rarepair server for listening to me complain about writing this for weeks on end, you guys are the best. Shout out to con, for encouraging my shitposting about this fic, and telling me to include this alternate summary:  
> what if we kissed 😳 in the library 😳 and one of us was a ghost 😳 and we were both women 😳  
> Thank you also to Kosaji, whose brilliant generator inspired this idea in the first place.  
> .  
> Head down to the bottom section of notes for specific content warnings!

_ Ocean, don’t be afraid.  _

_ The end of the road is so far ahead  _

_ it is already behind us.  _

_ Don’t worry. Your father is only your father  _

_ until one of you forgets. Like how the spine  _

_ won’t remember its wings  _

_ no matter how many times our knees  _

_ kiss the pavement.  _

_ -”Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong”, by Ocean Vuong _

**NOW**

“Your father is dead.” 

M.M. laughs, because what else is she supposed to do?

The messenger doesn't look amused, simply taps his documents together more firmly, and presents them to her, like a gift. God. That's so funny she might start crying.

“Why does that matter to me, at all?” she asks. 

The messenger doesn't look up from where his head is bowed over the stacked paper, reams of legal documents all printed on crisp white A4. 

It's everything M.M. has ever wanted. Her hands are shaking.

“You are the last surviving descendant of Raphael Adam Mercier, the only remaining heir to the Mercier estates.” he says, and M.M. stops breathing.  _ Her siblings are dead. _ The thought rings hollow, empty sunlight where grief should be.

It’s habit more than thought that makes her take the documents, hesitating only a little. Looking back up at the messenger, she realizes that she still doesn’t know his name. It would be smart, probably, to ask for it, seeing as he’ll be on her payroll shortly. She doesn’t; in the eyes of her father’s people, she has little dignity to begin with, no need to compound the issue.

The messenger nods, taking her lack of comment as an agreement, and turns away. “We will expect you within the month, then.” He doesn't look back. M.M. doesn’t call after him.

.

**THEN**

Here’s how it happens. M.M. comes from the wrong side of money, the unfortunately permanent reminder of her father’s vacation to Italy. She’s raised in France alongside her legitimate sisters and brothers, taught how to how to play the clarinet, speak three languages, and the proper angle to bow when her siblings pass by. 

Her mother is kept in comfort, if not luxury, and M.M. has the privilege of seeing her twice a year, on the equinox. 

M.M. learns how to be a good daughter, and then, when her father is not looking, she learns how to become a good thief as well.

She steals physical things at first, hoards jewelry and clothing, reveling in the idea of a different birthright. For a moment, standing in front of the mirror, gold around her throat, it’s almost possible to believe she’s worthy. 

She’s caught eventually. High on the thrill of an unattainable dream she takes too many risks. Her father is not pleased.

It’s several months before M.M. dares to move without worrying about puncturing a lung. 

.

**NOW**

The inheritance documents are relatively straightforward, a list of requirements that her father had written into his will along with some conditions for the transferral of property. Most of them are pretty standard. There's a binding agreement in it about how the family fortune should (or should not be) spent but M.M.'s seen it all before. 

She's about to pack it all away and break out the wine Chrome had brought back on her last trip abroad, when one of the personal stipulations catches her eye. 

_ “Heir/ess will have a lawfully wedded spouse, and agree to no more than a 40/60 split regarding the management of the estate and all related properties and inheritances.” _

She sets the paper down, and pulls out a shot glass. Screw the wine. This was a vodka problem.

~~~

The list of things she's going to be inheriting is long and involved. There's a whole page dedicated to the management of their Canadian hunting lodge. M.M. didn't even know her father had been to Canada once, let alone enough times to have a hunting lodge there.

There are pages of investments, stocks, properties, wealth both social and liquid, and in the back of it all, a list of items of significant value.

Paintings, jewelry, historical documents, and even horses. Apparently M.M. is about to be the owner of two prize winning thoroughbreds. The absurdity of it all sends her laughing, the shots she's downed sloshing around in her gut.

She hasn't had anything to eat yet and, well, it's probably too late now. She pours herself another shot and watches the light from the overhead lamp refract through the clear liquid. It sends luminescence in arcs over the inheritance documents, highlighting phases out of a sea of words. 

_ Carrying out the will of the deceased… _

_ Legal partner… _

_ Responsible for the enclosed list of…  _

_ Married for two or more years... _

M.M. closes her eyes. She takes the shot.

.

**THEN**

While she’s recovering, M.M. discoveres the library. Hidden around the corner of one of their hedge mazes, it becomes a safe haven from staff and siblings alike. 

Quickly, the smell of old parchment becomes associated with peace in M.M.’s mind. Her father doesn’t care much for the library, constructed by his father in order to house his collection of rare historical manuscripts. After her grandfather’s untimely death, the library had been neglected by the main family. Out of sight, out of mind.

The staff comes by once a month to air the place out, but besides that, no one bothers her inside its four walls.

M.M. loves it all the more for her father’s indifference. 

Hidden among the piles of useless information are gems: almanacs and diaries and personal accounts of history that use phrases like  _ L’habit ne fait pas le moine,  _ and  _ Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné. _

She devours history like someone starved. Not every book in the library is worth reading, she finds. There are accounts of 16th century weather that nearly make her fall asleep standing up. She discounts the instruction manuals on proper sheep herding out of hand. No, what keeps her in the library, even past the time spent hiding from her family are the stories. 

Here: a minor nobel’s recounting of how she fooled the crown into lowering her taxes. Here: the wreckage of a battle set down in ink, smeared by tears. Here: letters between two lovers, separated by an ocean. 

She drinks it all in, and tells herself, in the smallest and most secret part of her heart: if they survived then, I can survive now. The weight of history piles up, and she wraps it around her shoulders, the past whispering in her ear: she is not alone. 

Out of all the books in her grandfather’s library however, there is one that is her absolute favorite. Wrapped in leather, it has a ribbon for a bookmark, tied off with a glittering yellow stone. 

Its spine crackles under her fingers and the pages are earmarked, even before she finds it. It’s a book that’s seen wear, years of ink stains and fingerprints, and after reading it M.M. wouldn’t be surprised if they were all from the original owner. 

The diary of Elena Spade is the history of a life lived in defiance of fear. Starting from early teenage years, with Elena complaining about the necessity of writing, and mundane troubles, it quickly evolves into the life of someone out to change the world. 

M.M. is only eleven when she first reads about Elena walking into a party and causing such a stink that the local authority was forced to reconsider the pleas of the farmers under their jurisdiction. Elena’s writing drips with passion, and even young as she is--some of the words and concepts go straight over her head--M.M. can feel the fire she had for her cause.

Elena didn’t ignore the downtrodden, and when she writes about the struggles of trying to escape from beneath her father’s thumb, M.M. wipes away a hasty bout of tears. 

Elena runs away via marriage to someone who shares her passions, and M.M. wants that. She wants to be free so badly it leaves her dizzy. She wants, she wants, she wants. It’s a pit of avarice in her stomach, longing a mile wide.

M.M. wants what she can’t have, but in the meantime, rereading Elena’s account of a weekend’s rebellion for the sixth time, she thinks this might be enough. 

Far above her, the sunlight filters in, dappling over the page. Elena’s writing lights up, black over golden paper. For just a moment, it seems like the book is warm in her palms, like she’s holding onto the hand of a beloved friend.

.

**NOW**

France is unseasonably warm when M.M. touches down, skies blue, temperature somewhere around sweltering. She loves the country in her own way, which includes copious amounts of distance, and equal amounts of champagne when she arrives.

She's going to meet what remains of her father's retainers in less than 24 hours, and in the meantime, she plans on finding a hotel and sleeping like the dead. There’s a list of requirements in her head for the hotel: sheets with a thread count higher than the Vongola's list of sins, more champagne, rose petals. 

As she steps into the waiting taxi she nods firmly to herself. She’s going to demand rose petals.

.

**THEN**

“Marriage,” her father says, “is the least you could do for this family.” M.M. can hear what he doesn’t say.  _ You are an investment wearing a face. Marry up and let me reap the rewards. _

She’s not surprised, is the thing. She’s seen even her properly born siblings filed off to cement alliances and negotiations, nothing but bodies to hold her father’s promises.

He slides a paper over to her, little more than a headshot and a sparse summary of a personality. “Make sure your Italian is up to par.”

M.M., all of thirteen years old, looks at her future husband, and nods, eyes unseeing. Her hand settles lightly on the paper and she feels her body nodding along without her conscious consent. 

A pause, and she feels more than sees her father’s dismissal. Her head is floating and as if in a dream she observes herself bow back to him, the movement swaddled in cotton, her thoughts weighed down by a numb sort of silence.

She turns away, out of the office and into the hallway. Sunlight streams through the windows rendering them opaque, and she squints into it, trying and failing to see the rose garden she knows lies below. 

.

**NOW**

“Hold a second.” M.M. raises a hand to stop one of the retainers from continuing the list of provisions for her inheritance. 

Both retainers--one tall and lanky, the other clutching a stack of papers like her life depends on it--have been droning on for hours now. It's nothing she hasn't heard before; they're reading from the same list that was in her own pile of documents, but maybe the repetition makes them feel better.

The tall retainer clears his throat and pushes up his glasses, eyeing her suspiciously. “What seems to be the problem, my lady?”

There's that too. The “my lady” business. Normally, M.M. is all about respect, the more blatant the better, but what the staff is offering her isn't respect, it's barely even acknowledgement. The polite turns of phrase, the barely hidden glances, all of it sounds more like mockery than any sort of fond regard. 

Considering the circumstances she left in it's not a surprise, but the fact that they can't be bothered to hide it more than they are, irks her. Regardless, they had just started into the marriage section of the requirements, and that was something she had to clear up right away because, “I'm already married.”

M.M. can see the moment when her words register with the two of them because the one holding the papers nearly drops them, and the tall one’s glasses nearly slide off his nose. 

When they make no move to comment, she continues, “I wasn’t sure the family knew, especially given our,” she pauses, delicate as the edge of a stiletto, “estrangement in recent years, but I am more than qualified in that regard.” 

Her smile is vicious as the tall retainer slowly turns the page to the next set of requirements, eyeing her carefully. His voice is blank as he says, “Well then, if that's the case, we'll move on to the next set of stipulations. You will of course, need to provide us further details at a later date.” 

“Of course.”

.

**THEN**

Here’s what M.M. knows about her husband to be:

  1. He’s a creep. The two of them won’t be married until she’s of age, but even the thought of it is enough to make her skin crawl, make her fingers clench, like she’s about to rip off her skin. At best, he thinks she’s some kind of trophy. She doesn’t want to think about the worst.
  2. He’s a guy. This is significant only to M.M. (much of the list she’s compiling is the same way; she’s doing it regardless), but she’s been starting to notice lately that she does not want in the same way her classmates do. On a scale of relevance to her life, the revelation ranks around a  negative infinity, but still, it bears a mention. Even if (1) didn’t apply, M.M.’s not sure if she would want a “him”. 
  3. He runs one of the best black market fencing operations this side of Europe. Objectively this is useless information: M.M. isn’t in a position to need a fence, no matter how good of a thief she thinks she is, nor will she be entrusted with any part of his business, ever. 



It does, however, come with one tantalizing fact: he has several warehouses he uses to store goods before he can sell them. 

She has heard her father’s personal guards talking about those warehouses, poorly guarded for all that he boasts about their security. He and her father are hoping to pool resources, protection in return for a share of his dealings, but in the meantime those warehouses were practically open territory. 

  1. He has a cruel streak. It’s not immediately obvious, but M.M. can read between the lines of what his staff says about him. Demanding, exacting, strict, it’s not a hard conclusion to come to when his staff won’t step a toe out of line, even behind closed doors. They wear high collars and long sleeves, and when they bring her to the tailor she catches the glaces they throw her way. 



As if she is a doll about to be broken.

  1. He’s not someone she wants to marry.
  2. He’s not someone she wants to marry.



~~~

Curling up in the library after dark, M.M. pulls out the piece of paper her father had given her again. Her future husb- her fian- a man stares back at her, eyebrows narrowed over his glare. She folds it once, twice, three times, covering him in a layer of paper, lines creasing right through his forehead. It doesn’t really help.

She’s wedged herself in between a bookshelf and the nearby wall, knees pressed uncomfortably into her chin. The air thins itself between her teeth as she breathes, just a little too quickly. 

She doesn’t know what to do. Her mother is miles away, and basically useless. The rest of her family is no help either, and going to the authorities would be worse than doing nothing. She has to solve this on her own. She can’t solve this on her own. 

Two years. If she’s lucky, she has two years before she’s sent to live with him, and then she’ll really be out of options. 

The library is dark and silent, and M.M. forces herself further back into the corner, closing her eyes. Her fingernails dig bruises into her elbows. She doesn’t cry. 

.

**NOW**

So here's the thing. M.M. is married on a technicality. Quite frankly, during her time in Vendicare she forgot she even had a “wife”. The limited paperwork she got through when she was thirteen did not a marriage make.

She has no rights to her “wife’s” inheritance (not that it would be particularly practical, mind), she hasn’t changed her name, and she doesn’t wear a ring. Hell, she hasn’t even met her spouse. There’s no court in the world that would uphold her union. M.M. has no rights to a dead woman’s hand in marriage, and frankly, even she feels a little bit bad for taking advantage of someone with no way to protest. 

On the other hand, she absolutely cannot get a divorce now. She’s going to inherit every last cent of her Father’s estate if it kills someone. Not her, definitely, but if she has to shed someone else’s blood over this, she has no qualms about doing so. 

So that's how M.M. finds herself in the library after she is left alone by the staff. It’s dusk by now, an entire day of talking over papers that M.M. had already memorized leaving her vaguely irritated. Restless. 

Above her the dim sunset filters through stained glass set high in the ceiling; colors play over the walls to the floor below. The bookshelves are a dark wood and she runs her hand along a shelf as she goes, kicking up dust, motes of amber light drifting in her wake. 

There probably hasn’t been anyone in here since her father died, and it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in longer. The scent of old paper slows her meandering through the stacks, lending weight to her footsteps as she looks for the book she knows is in here. She was the only one who read it, after all.

Finally, buried in between 19th century accounts of trade and an 18th century almanac about farming, she finds it. A simple book, aged leather and parchment, with a name written on the first page in shaky cursive.

Elena Spade. 

.

**THEN**

A spring wedding. New beginnings. M.M. can feel bile rising in her throat and swallows roughly around the scald of it. They’ve scheduled the wedding itself in two years, which is far, far too soon. She looks down at her left hand, adorned with her father’s promises. 

She’s never hated diamonds more.

Running over the grass, past the artful bushes and landscaping, she disappears into the library. Her feet echo in the quiet, and she quickly slips to her favorite corner, discarding the book she had been reading, taking out Elena’s diary. 

Almost without thinking about it, her hands flip to the section where Elena describes meeting Daemon for the first time. 

_...We two have everything before us, and, I think perhaps it might be within our reach, to grasp it all. His arms are no longer than mine, surely, but planning to change the world is undoubtedly easier done together. Two souls, we are, two pairs of hands reaching for the same dream, and encountering each other along the way. Oh heart, be still, for it is fluttering again at the thought of what we might do as one.  _

_ With the grace of God we continue, and hope that He might bear aside hellfire and damnation except to those who deserve it most. Though it pains my soul to write this, let the flame of revolution lick too at the soles of my brother’s feet, and my father’s feet, that they might feel the string of their sins against the common man, and correct their ways.  _

_ I must set down my pen for now, but my longing has not abated. Though I will see him tomorrow, I fear it will never been soon enough. Ah, to be a bird, singing the good news as I take to the evening skies. My dearest Daemon, let the night pass swiftly, that we might see each other again! _

She closes the diary, and fights back tears.  _ Bear aside hellfire and damnation except to those who deserve it most. _ Yeah. Okay.

~~~

In the end, it’s an easy choice. The plan comes together with a simplicity akin to the slam of a coffin door. Do this, or die in every way that matters. 

On her way out the door, she picks up some matches.

~~~

Before she gets any farther, M.M. plans one more stop. It’s easy enough to break into the government building, and forge the proper signatures. 

She files them, backdating the paperwork enough that it will hopefully go unnoticed. 

There. See them try to marry her off now.

Mumbling something half prayer, half apology,  M.M. leaves the building. She has warehouses to burn down.

~~~

The charred ruins of nine warehouses lie in her wake, and M.M. can feel her mouth twisting around a smile made of knives. It’s not a pretty thing, but then again there’s no one around to pretend for. She spits absently, noting the taste of charcoal still caught between her teeth. She needs a shower.

Still, it’s more than enough. With this, any motivation her father might have had to marry her off is nothing more than ash in the wind. 

She is alone in the world, but for a glorious hour, she is free.

She’s halfway across France (never returning to the manor, ever) when the universe splits itself apart at the seams, letting a howling darkness in. From the void, steps a figure cloaked in rags and bandages. All the weight of eternity on their tongue, they tone, “Manette Mercier. You are under arrest.”

She hates her name in their mouth and fights back a flinch. It takes a moment for the rest of their sentence to hit her, but when it does, the blood drains from her face. Something in her chest cracks, marble under a sledge hammer. 

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

.

**NOW**

It’s been years since she last read the book, the pages worn in familiar ways, handwriting the same slanted mess as before. It’s a strange mental dissonance, rereading words she had once spent hours repeating to herself. She can hear the echo, a faint whisper of her own voice layered with what she had always imagined Elena’s to sound like, repeating back memories. Dreams.

It has been years since then, and M.M. is a different person. Still, Elena’s words ring true to her even now, the space between the past and the present adding new layers of meaning to entries M.M. had previously skimmed over. 

It feels strange to speak out loud, like slipping back into spaces she used to live in, their contour unnatural, but she does so anyway. “I’m sorry, you know? I didn’t mean to just use you and vanish like that.” 

Her lips twist as she thinks of the endless halls of Vendicare, the sound of water on rocks. “Trust me when I say it was out of my control.”

The diary has no answer for her, and she nods, feeling a little foolish. What did she expect, really? For it to respond? 

When she finally walks out of the library the sun has set. She smiles at the sky, still painted with sunlight, a wash of violet and amber. Beneath her arm, the diary is warm, and when she looks down at it, its yellow stone glitters in the faint light. The air is cool and damp with plant life and slowly, she starts walking back towards the manor. 

It is not enough to have said the words out loud, no way to apologize to Elena, and yet, somehow, it feels almost like forgiveness.

~~~

“I’ve told you already, she’s traveling.” M.M. taps her napkin against her lips, the picture of civility. It had taken a couple of minutes to remember the intricate manners her father used to demand, and a couple more to convince herself to start using them. 

The reminder of her past is unpleasant, but it’s worth it to see the look on the face of her father’s lawyer. Every time she takes a bite of scone or sips her tea he makes an expression not dissimilar to that of biting into a lemon. She’s currently testing how high she can get his eyebrows to rise. Right now they’re at a solid three-quarters of an inch over his eyes, but she bets she can get them higher. 

Another dainty nibble on her scone, and M.M. continues, “My dearest Elena has a free-spirited heart, and I would be a positively deplorable wife if I tried to trap her in any way.”

“...right.” her father’s lawyer (What was his name again?), agrees with a wince. “I suppose she won’t be available any time in the future, either?” It’s said with resignation, and M.M. fights down a smile.

“Correct.”

And that, as it turns out, is that.

.

**THEN**

M.M.’s crimes are relatively “low level” whatever the hell that means, so she’s thrown in one of the upper levels of Vendicare. When the blindfold is taken off, she’s met with darkness on all sides, and the subtle drip of water, somewhere below. 

She screams. It doesn’t change anything, but does makes her feel the tiniest bit better.

Around her, the other prisoners laugh and laugh and laugh.

~~~

Vendicare is an intimidating place, but quite frankly, there is nothing for M.M. to do in it. Nothing to rob, no one to charm. Through conversations with the other prisoners (some helpful, some… not so much), she figures out where she is, and why she’s here. Probably. The Vindice didn’t exactly toss her a rulebook when they threw her into the cell.

From what she can piece together, her father is part of something a lot bigger than she had ever imagined. So big that it has its own ruling class and set of laws. Laws that she apparently broke when taking preemptive revenge on her fiance. It wasn’t that the mafia disapproved of revenge, they just didn’t want it to be at all public. Nine warehouses going up in flames across the region was apparently crossing that line.

Mafia, Omerta, Families. The words take on new meanings as she talks to more people, and she spends her nights thinking them over. It kind of sucks, honestly.

Once she figures out her situation, there’s nothing left to do but wait. No one has ever escaped from Vendicare, her fellow prisoners tell her. It’s hopeless.

M.M. has spent her entire life waiting on hopeless situations, and she knows the truth. They’re only hopeless until an opportunity arises. She settles her clothes around her, and keeps her eyes open. 

When the opportunity comes, she’s not going to miss it.

.

**NOW**

Signing the final documents doesn’t quite feel real. She now has every privilege her father did (and more considering her position outside of France), and yet, with ink drying on the page, she feels 13 again. Small. 

The sun has set outside. She makes polite noises to the staff, and leaves to hide in the library for a while, where things are still familiar. 

~~~

On the plane ride back home, M.M. puts her hand on the window. She had gotten a private jet to take her back, and as her home country fades over the horizon she lets the bass drone of the engines sink into her bones, settling them back into place. 

They ascend into the clouds, and M.M.’s head slowly comes to rest next to her hand. The buzz rattles her skull, the frequency to some radio  she can’t understand. Outside, the world is painted by twilight, a haze the color of deep water tinting the clouds. 

At her feet lies a bag packed with essentials. Clothes, toiletries, ID, and on top of it all, a diary.

France fades into an expanse of memories and M.M., master of the Mercier estates, falls asleep. 

~~~

In her dreams, M.M. is wearing a dress. This wouldn’t be unusual, except for the fact that she hasn’t worn this particular dress in over a decade.

It had been at a party, one of the few her father allowed her to attend, and she had been dolled up in makeup for the first time ever. 

What she had been given to wear had more ruffles than she had fingers. But it had been made of good cotton and silk, and shone in the sunlight, so M.M. had worn it proudly, still hoping to prove that she could be a good daughter. 

Somehow, it makes sense that she’s wearing it now, pink lace and all, sized up to fit her adult body. 

She sits on her bed, her real one, watching the sunset, loop over and over again. It’s an acidic green, lighting up the distant Vongola Mansion.

She’s about to stand up and go outside when someone sits down beside her and takes her hand in theirs. It feels natural to tangle their fingers together, and M.M. does so, resting her head on their shoulder. 

Outside, the sunset halts, reverses, a technicolor display defying physics as stars streak across  the sky, now a burning shade of violet. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it.”

M.M. hums in response, turning her head so that her mouth brushes their cheek, skin warm under her mouth. “No more than you.”

“Flatterer.” Elena says, before fitting their lips together in a kiss. M.M. hums, then gasps into it, fingers tightening on Elena’s as she presses closer. It feels like a hearthfire; pleasant warmth dragging itself down her nerves, all wrapped up in her heart beating  _ home home home. _

Above them, the sun pauses and resumes its normal descent, the sunset lighting up golden streaks behind her eyelids. 

M.M. wakes flushed, eyes full of stars. She feels overexposed, like a poorly taken photograph, light obscuring any detail. The plane is still in the sky, the clouds now gauzy tapestries streaking past the window. 

At her feet, for just a moment, the diary glows gold.

.

**THEN**

A little more than a year later, hope arrives. It comes in the night, in the form of three shapes passing in front of her cell, when there should be no one.

She had been talking in whispers to Eiko, the elderly woman in the cell next to her, when they passed in front of the hall light, two cells down.

(Eiko was in for multiple counts of murder, killing high ranking Yakuza members in very, very public ways. She was also taking time to teach M.M. Japanese, so she’s choosing to overlook the little things. Vendicare has done awful things to her standards for company.)

By the time they’re in front of M.M.’s cell, she’s by it’s door, eyes sharp.

“You’re escaping, aren’t you.”

Surprisingly, the three of them stop, and M.M. gets her first good look at them all. All of them seem like they’ve been through hell, clothing ripped, bodies covered in wounds large and small. 

The one at the front is clearly the leader, hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, heterochromatic eyes narrowed at her. The one to his left looks almost feral, a scar over the bridge of his nose, fingers dripping blood. The last holds two yoyos, with a strange amount of menace, and in the gloom, M.M. can barely make out the way his eyes glitter like broken glass. 

Ponytail is the one who answers her. “We are. Consider this,” he chuckles, “our parting gift.” From a distance, M.M. hears a scream. It dies down into choked noises, as if the person was suffocating on their own blood.

M.M. forces herself not to react. It’s not like she cared about the wardens, anyway.

“A parting gift from who?”

The leader pauses, as if not expecting the question, before sweeping a hand through his bangs. “Mukuro Rokudo… and company.” Behind him, his two friends (minions?), shift, but don’t say anything. Clearly, M.M. only has to convince one person, and the other two will fall in line.

She makes her voice sweet when she says, “Take me with you.”

Mukuro smirks. “And what could you possibly give to me that’s worth bringing you along?”

In his eyes, M.M. can see a mirror of herself. A want so wide it could swallow the world whole. She reaches out a hand. “Anything.”

When Mukuro steps out of the prison, there are three people following behind him.

.

**NOW**

The dreams persist for weeks after M.M. returns from France. She wakes with the sunrise now, body prickling. It’s slightly uncomfortable, the sensation of meeting someone for minutes at a time, only to be yanked away come morning. 

It sends a pang of longing through her, an understated sort of grief. She misses her. She hasn’t met her.

M.M. goes to sleep every night, and wakes every morning to watch the sun rise. It’s blinding. 

.

**THEN**

M.M. doesn’t forget. Power stems from the ones she gives it to. She goes where Mukuro tells her to, fights his battles, and somewhere in-between it all  _ I  _ becomes  _ my.  _

My friends, my family, my home. She repeats it to herself, a little disbelieving, as she follows her newfound family through years of pain and blood. 

They have power over her, she knows this. Somewhere between time travel and fighting off the sins of centuries past she gave her small ragged band of prisoners her heart. Sometimes, she even thinks it wasn’t a mistake.

Sometimes too, she thinks about Elena and her merry band of misfits, unnamed but with the same unrelenting will as her own. She thinks they would get along. (Later, she will consider that thought and laugh until she nearly falls over.)

In the moment however, she is content. She is 15, 16, 17, 18, and her hands are light without any rings. The shadow of the Vindice is abated, if not completely gone. Her father has no idea where she is. 

.

**NOW**

Chikusa is sitting on the couch when M.M. breaks into his apartment. She likes to think of it as a friendly sort of b&e, a way for them to bond. She gets to practice her lockpicking and Chikusa gets some of his food eaten. She’s seen the way he stocks his fridge. Quite frankly she’s doing him a favor. Chikusa complains quietly, but always cooks more. 

(M.M. knows Chikusa hates crab, and yet every time Ken comes home, there’s some waiting for him. There’s chocolate in the cupboard for Mukuro, and mugi choco for Chrome. M.M. has her own stash of poulet chips above the fridge too.

It’s all the things he doesn’t say, she’s found, that show he cares.)

Anyway, Chikusa needs someone to break up the monotony of his day to day life, because if left alone he would become a solitary nerd waiting for Mukuro or Ken to come back from overseas, doing yoyo tricks and angsting to EDM music in his spare time. 

It’s a mutually beneficial relationship, which is why when she jumps over the couch and lays her head on his shoulder, Chikusa doesn’t flinch from surprise. He doesn't kick her out immediately either, which means he’s in a good mood. Ken must be returning soon. 

M.M. had once spent an afternoon watching Chrome plot out Chikusa’s cooking habits in excel. She’d made a graph of it too, and then, while M.M. was still watching with confused fascination, had printed it out next to one of Ken’s total time traveling abroad. It was perplexing, but no more than other Chrome-isms that M.M. had gotten used to over the years.

M.M had asked her once she was done, why she had bothered. The two graphs were clearly related, the correlation undeniable once paired together, but that didn’t explain how Chrome had noticed the trend in the first place, or why she felt compelled to note it down.

Chrome had given her a look, and said something about the nature of understanding being the same as investment. Attention and affection rooting in the same soil. 

M.M. had nodded, and pretended to understand. She did that a lot around Chrome.

See, the thing is that Ken loves traveling almost as much as he loves his family, and Chikusa would die before he tried to chain him. Equally so, Chikusa has no idea how to relax without Ken by his side, and spends the time he’s away stress cooking new dishes, each more complex than the last. 

When Ken returns home, it’s to a veritable feast in neatly packed containers, each labeled with a date, an ingredient list, and his name. 

M.M. thinks about two graphs with equally spaced peaks and valleys, marking time before they’re reunited. She thinks about loving someone you cannot see. She carefully does not examine the wretched thing taking root in her heart, blooming with something close to longing. 

Chikusa, probably sensing that M.M. wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want something, looks up from the book he was reading, placing a finger on the page. 

M.M. doesn’t give him the luxury of an answer. She’s here to eat Chikusa’s food and sit in the company of someone who isn’t her father’s old staff. If he wants her reason for being here, he’s going to have to ask for it.

He doesn’t ask, which is a quality M.M. admires in her friends. He does scoot the plate of onigiri by his side in her direction, however, which is almost worse.

She takes one and stews in her feelings for a bit, watching the light streak across the windows. Eats it. Asks, “Is it possible to love someone you’ve never met?”

Chikusa doesn’t respond, just hands her another onigiri. Yeah. She figured as much.

.

**THEN**

It is only after the fact that M.M. hears about Daemon. 

_ A ghost. _ Ken says.

_ An apparition.  _ Chikusa says.

_ A fool.  _ Mukuro says.

Chrome doesn’t say anything, and M.M. takes note of it, treading lightly around her. 

Later, in their communal kitchen, she will hand her a mug of tea and a lighter. Chrome will take them carefully, and tuck the lighter out of sight. They will not need to say anything.

~~~

M.M. spares a brief thought for Elena, and her Daemon. It’s a melancholy ache, the idea that the two might be the same. She brushes it aside after a while. Even if they were, what would it change?

.

**NOW**

She’s in the library again. The walls are falling away, leaving the books exposed to open air. White silk and brocade hobble her legs as she runs, wedding dress nearly tripping her every other step. 

Sunlight falls through the roof, collapsing it into pieces, as if light and stone weighed the same. Bits of it shower around her as she turns the corner, slipping to the floor.

The stacks periscope out, shelves extending for miles. Above her, the roof continues to fall in, revealing the sun burning far too close, fire over half the sky. 

She’s sweating buckets, but continues to run. She needs… 

She needs to find someone, she’s sure of it. She needs to find Elena.

Another turn, and the bookshelves start to dissolve as well, becoming delicate fixtures spun of nothing but air and memory. 

On and on the shelves stretch, but no matter how long she runs, she can’t seem to make any progress. Again she trips, this time on her skirt. In a fit of frustration, she fists her hands in it, feeling embroidery dig into her palms. Then, she  _ pulls. _

The wedding dress tears itself apart at the seams, white fabric ripping up her thighs. The once intricate skirt hangs as two panels of fabric, tears extending to her hips. M.M. shakes off some excess pearls clinging to the embroidery, sending thousands of dollars clattering to the floor. For a second, she stretches, relishing her new freedom of movement. Then she  _ runs.  _

Without the skirt restricting her movement she runs faster and faster, streaking towards the center of the library. Rounding one last corner, she skids to a halt, panting. 

There’s no one here.

M.M. spins in a circle, hands clutching her ruined skirt involuntarily. Where is she? She was supposed to be here, M.M. is sure of it. Instead, all that lies at the center of the library is the diary’s bookmark, yellow stone shining in the sun. 

M.M. drops to her knees in front of it, torn wedding dress fluttering around her legs. 

Faintly, below the roar of the library roof falling in, she hears a whisper. 

_ Find me. _

.

**THEN**

Years pass. M.M. (19, 20, 21, and somehow still alive) finds herself on the sidelines of Sawada Tsunayoshi’s ascendance to the Vongola throne. It’s honestly a fascinating process to watch. 

She thinks there’s an art to it, the way he smiles at his enemies, while crushing them into pulp. Slowly, like turning a battleship dead in the water, the Vongola bends to his will. She watches as legal businesses gradually spring up at the edges of the Family’s interests and devour its dark underbelly whole.

There’s a position for her there, as well. When Basil inherits the CEDEF, he needs new staff. M.M. steps up. She already knows Italian, and can think on her feet. She’s not perfect, but she’s enough.

Basil gives her an introduction packet that consists of weirdly specific advice, and a list of names to memorize, starting with Reborn’s. M.M. doesn’t appreciate the patronizing (everyone knows who Reborn is), but she reads the whole thing anyway. Then she reads it again. And again. 

By the time she’s memorized it, she’s convinced that the Vongola could take over the world by sheer weird happenstance. Time travel is honestly the least strange thing the family has encountered over ten generations of eccentric Family members. There are stories she doesn’t get all sides to for years, but the packet never leads her wrong.

Basil’s team sweeps in like a cleansing fire, scouring the CEDEF until the organization is ready to step into its proper role. Through it all, M.M. watches Tsuna, settling into Italy like a storm front. Restrained power and weaponized mercy.

.

**NOW**

When M.M. walks into Chrome’s office she immediately collapses over the old sofa Chrome keeps in there. It smells like old dirt, and she had acquired it for free off the side of the road, in the pouring rain. 

M.M. remembers trying to tie it to the roof of their car, which had been outfitted to deflect bullets, not transport furniture. She had sweat straight through her Gucci jacket, and completely ruined a pair of heels.

It had been miserable, wet, and something M.M. absolutely refuses to repeat, but at least Chrome loves the wreched thing. She refuses to throw it away, and after all the work they put into retrieving it, M.M. refuses to allow her to.

(M.M. has caught Spanner and Chikusa trying to haul it out to the dump, and had taken vindictive joy in calling Chrome. Their expressions upon being caught were priceless.)

There’s an absent noise of acknowledgement from where Chrome is writing out her after-action report, but she doesn’t look up. Chrome is acquainted with M.M.’s dramatics by now, years of familiarity letting her know how to wait them out. 

Another few minutes and then M.M., muffled by the couch cushions, asks, “How would you go about haunting something?”

At this, Chrome finally looks up from her writing to glance at M.M., still collapsed into the couch. “Depends on what I wanted to do by haunting it.”

“There are multiple types of haunting?”

Chrome puts down her pen, setting aside her work for now. “Yes. Temporary possession, long term possession, mind walking…” She lists them off on her fingers unhesitatingly. 

That’s one of the things M.M. likes about her. Chrome doesn’t see any point in hiding information. The truth might hurt, but it was better said face to face than anywhere else. 

“Is there a long term option?”

“Sort of? Haunting is more similar to remote surveillance than putting a soul in a pickle jar.”

M.M. makes a choked noise, rolling over. “Ok but there is one, right? Didn’t-” she cuts herself off. As much as she wants answers, mentioning Daemon would be royally insensitive of her. 

Chrome is smart enough to figure out where M.M. was leading and fixes her with a look. It’s one part irritation, one part understanding. “Didn’t Daemon, you mean.”

“Yeah.” M.M. says, muffled into the couch cushion she’s placed over her face. She takes it off to look at Chrome, and continues, “You don’t have to talk about him though.”

Chrome sighs. “It’s been years, M.M.. I’m not made of glass.” 

“That’s not-” M.M. cuts herself off. She hasn’t thought Chrome to be delicate for years. Chrome is one of the most feared illusionists in the northern hemisphere, who keeps herself alive via willpower alone. Despite her slender arms, there’s nothing breakable about her. 

Still, that doesn’t mean M.M. should bring up her past like that. If someone mentioned France to M.M. without a damn good reason, she would gut them, ruin their place in society, and then dance on their grave.

Perhaps that’s the difference between them. Chrome is an illusionist--weaponizes her nightmares. M.M. buries hers until they can’t touch her. 

With that divide in mind, she continues, only hesitating a little. “Daemon. He kept himself,” she uses air quotes, “‘alive… ish’ for centuries. How?”

Chrome gives her another look, but explains. “He tied his soul to an ideal, basically. He became a ghost, connected to this plane of existence by willpower alone.”

That’s… not promising. M.M. furrows her eyebrows and presses further. “There’s no other way to do it?”

There’s a moment where M.M. thinks she pushed too far and Chrome won’t answer her, but she does eventually. Slowly, as if piecing it together herself, she says, “I suppose you could tie a soul to an object instead? You’d need a focus of some sort…” She trails off, muttering to herself. “Probably not just mist either, and you’d need a way to activate it…”

Seemingly coming to a conclusion, Chrome pulls a small trident from her pocket, sending a wave of indigo towards the walls and door. When it settles into place, she turns back to M.M. “The Vongola rings operate on a similar principle, except what they have is more like an impression than a soul. To preserve a full soul, the result would be more like a stasis. Frozen until something else came along.”

There’s something perilously close to hope unfolding itself in M.M.’s chest. “What would happen if something did?”

Chrome taps her trident against her desk, dismissing the flames. “You’d probably be able to perceive the world but not interact with it. Maybe you’d be able to influence the minds of people around you, or their dreams, but not much more.”

There it is. M.M. sits up, hand fishing in her pocket for a ring, burning at her touch. “It would be possible, though? To survive like that?”

“Possibly.” Chrome says. 

That’s enough for M.M.. She stands up from the couch, and tugs her clothing into place. “Thanks Chrome. That’s all I needed.”

“Be careful M.M.” Chrome says as she leaves.

M.M. nods, but it’s fleeting. She has a mission now.

.

**THEN**

Italy is wonderful. So new, and so trusting. M.M. seduces her way through the upper crust of the Mafia, gathering fortunes and favors like particularly fine jewels laid at her feet. Men fall over themselves to give her things, and her throat becomes accustomed to the weight of gold.

Bianchi gives her tips, sometimes, about who’s upcoming in their social sphere, and who M.M. should ensnare next. Curled together on a couch, M.M. thinks this is the closest she’s ever been to uncomplicated friendship. 

In the space between personal missions and restructuring the entire way CEDEF handles oversight (Letting the Ninth be put into a giant robot? Really?), M.M. takes time to breathe. She learns self-defense, and, when Mukuro is back from roaming the world, bullies him into teaching her to access flames. 

He sighs at her, but relents in the end. It’s a frustrating and humiliating few weeks as he drags her around--more often over--cliffsides and mountaintops. They go skydiving. M.M. is introduced to swordfighting. Via Squalo.

When she asks about the point of it all, he pins her with a look and flips his hair back. “Not everyone can be as gifted as I am, but we can certainly help with your fight or flight instinct.” M.M. is reminded again that Mukuro spent his childhood being experimented on, and  _ really _ can’t teach her in the same manner he was.

Mukuro hands her a small ring with a yellow stone embedded in the middle of it. M.M. fights off the urge to vomit the sight, and clasps it in both hands, watching him saunter around the room.

“This is the best way I can think of to get your instinct to survive activated.” Mukuro says. He shrugs, leaning against the wall of the training room. “There has to be something you want more than death. Something you would do more than die for. Consider it... a thought exercise of sorts.”

M.M. fights down a burst of… something, she’s not sure what, and stares at the ring in her hands. It glitters under the fluorescent lights, yellow stone an almost familiar sparkle. The image itches at her memory, but she pushes it aside in favor of thinking about Mukuro’s question.

She doesn’t have an answer. When she says as much, he gets up from the wall, walking away. “Come back when you do. Trying to access your dying will is pointless until then.”

M.M. is left in the room with a ring, a question, and a knot of uncertainty beneath her breastbone. She looks again at the ring, nearly familiar in her hands.

It doesn’t have any answers.

~~~

Despite her eligibility, she doesn’t even consider getting married. 

~~~

The CEDEF is the most work she’s ever put into a project--bar the one that threw her into jail for over a year--but M.M. thrives. And then, six years after being freed from Vendicare, the past comes to call in the form of a messenger, bearing her father’s last will.

There are some things that can’t be run from.

.

**NOW**

When she gets out of the Vongola mansion, M.M. knows what to do. The journey back to her apartment is a dream, passing in a gaussian blur. 

Moments jump out at her: the click of the engine turning on, the street lights blinking into existence against the hazy twilight, the smell of new leather and old cologne suffusing the car, but most of it is drowned out by the realization still sparking incredulity through her veins. 

She thinks she remembers to thank her driver as she practically trips over herself getting inside to reach the diary. It’s still there, right where she left it, bookmark in place, and she takes a moment to calm her racing heart.

The yellow stone refracts her living room lights, scattering the suggestion of sunlight into its dark corners.

Slowly, she steps in front of the table, and focuses. 

M.M. thinks about what Mukuro told her. 

_ Something you want more than death. Something you would do more than die for. _

She takes a deep breath. Holds it as she takes up the yellow stone in her palm. Thinks about Elena, about the nature of love, of familiarity across centuries, of souls trapped in amber, and about the library, three-quarters of a home.

Exhales.

_ Wants. _

It’s as if she’s unspooling sunlight from between her palms. She’s swallowed a star, brilliance burning in the pit of her stomach, and it rises, beating back the night that’s fallen outside.

Threads of molten gold burst from her hands, stitching themselves into a formless radiance, glowing with M.M.’s will. They start from the center, creating a white hot ball of heat that grows and grows until it has arms and legs and hair, fluttering in an invisible breeze.

Slowly, the glow fades, and M.M. sees a face she’s loved all her life, and yet, known not at all.

Elena is nearly translucent, flashes of the wall behind her appearing in fits and starts, her body wisping out at the edges, smoke-like. 

It’s as if she’s stepped straight a page of her diary, a ghost of parchment and faded-ink hair, gorgeously real. M.M. thinks she might have stopped breathing. Without really considering it, she opens her mouth and says, “I know you.” 

Immediately after, she wants to punch herself. Great first introduction, M.M. 

Elena, however, smiles. It’s a lovely thing, a little bit smaller than M.M. always imagined, but far more alive, curling up at the corners in a way that paper could never touch. “I know you too. Beautiful girl reading my heart, how could I not?”

M.M. is greedy. She wants the whole world in her hands and more, and so she steps forward,  _ willing _ their hands to touch. Elena’s fingers are warm and hesitant in her grasp and M.M. smiles the way the world has taught her to--with a cutting edge, neon and glass. “Good. Because I’m not leaving this time.”

Her laughter is as bright as the sunlight she appeared in, and M.M. steps closer, basking in its warmth. Quietly, with all the assurance of a sunrise, she thinks to herself.  _ Don’t let go. _

Don’t let go.

_ and again this morning as always _

_ I am stopped as the world comes back _

_ wet and beautiful I am thinking _

_     that language _

 

_ is not even a river _

_ is not a tree is not a green field _

_ is not even a black ant traveling _

_     briskly modestly _

 

_ from day to day from one _

_ golden page to another. _

_ -”Forty Years”, By Mary Oliver _

**Author's Note:**

> Specific Warnings For: An unwilling arranged marriage (it doesn't happen, but the prospect is raised, and M.M. goes to pretty serious lengths to avoid it), pretty blatant child neglect and abuse, a brief section that might read as a panic attack, a section where M.M. avoids her problems by drinking (no actual alcoholism is involved), M.M. spends a brief time period in Vendicare prison, and mentions of Daemon and allusions to all the nastiness involved therein (unwilling possession, etc).  
> Please tell me if I've missed anything important, and I'll add it here!
> 
> Apologies to history, because I know I've missed some stuff.
> 
> The two expressions M.M. reads in the history books are here:  
> https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/l%27habit_ne_fait_pas_le_moine  
> https://fr.wiktionary.org/wiki/mieux_vaut_%C3%AAtre_seul_que_mal_accompagn%C3%A9  
> But they boil down to "don't judge a book by its cover" and "better alone than in bad company". I do not speak french, if you do, feel free to come and correct me, I'd welcome it.
> 
> Thank you for reading, please leave a comment if you enjoyed it!!!


End file.
